Dis Joint
Jeff Rubard
rather than *aesthetiques*: involving tributes to "Barbie-as-James-
Brown-on-'Later with Jeffrey Rubard'" [*implicite*: "Barbie, unloose
the chains that bind you"] and Jacque Ranciere and a Polish "pony" non
Brother Lambert who gave you "Thatcherism non Thatcher" (in a future-
state, even). So, a "tri", *fecked*, which will still ultimately be /
yum/ as per the "representative payor" for the *Total correcte*
(HALPS!) New York Non-Den-O-Min-o breakfast and "Potluck in the Park"
*Non, Bataille* on Sunday, rather than the red, red wine which *I* do
not favor ("for you, honey.")
From the "Rubard Circle" to you: The drama of Shakespeare is a
"traditional taste" for the American anti-Semite, even worse than
extremo anti-Semite and "plagiarist of Rubard" Robert Brandom's
*pseudo-Hegelianism*, but "what profiteth it a man" to learn time is
out of joint, or that Spot is both "cursed" and "out", *isn't what you
think* a la semantic externalism. Written during the *high*
Elizabethan era, a time when E. was both *thick* and a "soul sister"
of *Typ* familiar to many of us, there was a whole lotta *Blendung*
goin' on and that *wasn't too cool, man*. So,
SHAKESPEARE WAS AN ANARCHIST;
So fond of the British Isles, that he *devised* totally irregular
"stratagems of domination" via unrulable metaphor for the "school for
scandal" and poet-tasters who *steal sequins* and *Sequenzen* both;
forming an allegory for the lands, "an city a day" in the play which
is thing; and arranging in order, "least to first".
Jimbo, tell them *how I will eventually feel*:
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/09/FirstFolioAllsWell.jpg
Jeff Rubard
Or, in "honor" of the Scottish breakfast restaurant Isabel:
SCENE III. A room in the palace.
Enter CELIA and ROSALIND
CELIA
Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?
ROSALIND
Not one to throw at a dog.
CELIA
No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon
curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
ROSALIND
Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one
should be lamed with reasons and the other mad
without any.
CELIA
But is all this for your father?
ROSALIND
No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how
full of briers is this working-day world!
CELIA
They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in
holiday foolery: if we walk not in the trodden
paths our very petticoats will catch them.
Jeff Rubard
>
> - Show quoted text -
'Quining' some "quailing":
A Room in the Castle.
Enter KING, QUEEN, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN.
King. There’s matter in these sighs, these profound heaves:
You must translate; ’tis fit we understand them. 4
Where is your son?
Queen. [To ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.] Bestow this place on us a
little while. [Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.
Ah! my good lord, what have I seen to-night.
King. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? 8
Queen. Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend
Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit,
Behind the arras hearing something stir,
Whips out his rapier, cries, ‘A rat! a rat!’ 12
And, in his brainish apprehension, kills
The unseen good old man.
King. O heavy deed!
It had been so with us had we been there. 16
His liberty is full of threats to all;
To you yourself, to us, to every one.
Alas! how shall this bloody deed be answer’d?
It will be laid to us, whose providence 20
Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt,
This mad young man: but so much was our love,
We would not understand what was most fit,
But, like the owner of a foul disease, 24
To keep it from divulging, let it feed
Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?
Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d;
O’er whom his very madness, like some ore 28
Among a mineral of metals base,
Shows itself pure: he weeps for what is done.
*Hamlet*, Oxford Edition 1914, via Bartleby
Jeff Rubard
The Shakespeare "breakdown" don't stop for 'hoes':
SCENE I. Before the house of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROMIO of Ephesus, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR
ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS
Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;
My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:
Say that I linger'd with you at your shop
To see the making of her carcanet,
And that to-morrow you will bring it home.
But here's a villain that would face me down
He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,
And charged him with a thousand marks in gold,
And that I did deny my wife and house.
Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS
Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;
That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show:
If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink,
Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS
I think thou art an ass.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS
Marry, so it doth appear
By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.
I should kick, being kick'd; and, being at that pass,
You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass.
ANTIPHOLUS
*The Comedy of Errors*, Arden edition or somethin', MIT Tech
Jeff Rubard
And finally: much love and respect till the end for *die wahre*
"Sanity Saver" --
Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady
by Alexander Pope
What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade
Invites my step, and points to yonder glade?
’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire
Above the vulgar flight of low desire?
Ambition first sprung from your blessed abodes;
The glorious fault of angels and of gods:
Thence to their images on earth it flows,
And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows,
Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage:
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,
And close confined in their own palace sleep.
From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)
Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And separate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death;
Cold is that breast which warmed the world before,
And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,
Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.
There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,
(While the long funerals blacken all the way)
‘Lo these were they, whose souls the Furies steeled,
And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne’er learned to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.’
What can atone (oh ever-injured shade!)
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o’ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung;
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev’n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,
Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
Jeff Rubard
>
> - Show quoted text -
On the other hand, it's the "unthought", it's all up in *your mind*:
FRom fairest creatures we desire increase, 25That thereby beauties
Rose might neuer die, ¶But as the riper should by time decease, ¶His
tender heire might beare his memory: ¶But thou contracted to thine
owne bright eyes, ¶Feed'st thy lights flame with selfe substantiall
fewell, 30Making a famine where aboundance lies, ¶Thy selfe thy
foe,_to thy sweet selfe too cruell: ¶Thou that art now the worlds
fresh ornament, ¶And only herauld to the gaudy spring, ¶Within thine
owne bud buriest thy content, 35And tender chorle makst wast in
niggarding: ¶Pitty the world,_or else this glutton be, ¶To eate the
worlds due,_by the graue and thee. 2
¶VVHen fortie Winters shall beseige thy brow, 40And digge deep
trenches in thy beauties field, ¶Thy youthes proud liuery so gaz'd on
now, ¶Wil be a totter'd weed of smal worth held: ¶Then being
askt,_where all thy beautie lies, ¶Where all the treasure of thy lusty
daies; 45To say within thine owne deepe sunken eyes, ¶Were an all-
eating shame,_and thriftlesse praise. ¶How much more praise deseru'd
thy beauties vse, ¶If thou couldst answere this faire child of mine
¶Shall sum my count,_and make my old excuse 50Proouing his beautie by
succession thine. ¶This were to be new made when thou art ould, And
see thy blood warme when thou feel'st it could, 3
¶LOoke in thy glasse and tell the face thou vewest, ¶Now is the time
that face should forme an other, ¶Whose fresh repaire if now thou not
renewest, ¶Thou doo'st beguile the world,_vnblesse some mother. 60For
where is she so faire whose vn-eard wombe ¶Disdaines the tillage of
thy husbandry? ¶Or who is he so fond will be the tombe, ¶Of his selfe
loue to stop posterity? ¶Thou art thy mothers glasse and she in thee
65Calls backe the louely Aprill of her prime, ¶So thou through
windowes of thine age shalt see, ¶Dispight of wrinkles this thy
goulden time. ¶But if thou liue remembred not to be, ¶Die single and
thine Image dies with thee.
------
XI
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;
Without this folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look whom she best endow'd, she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.
------
SHall I compare thee to a Summers day? ¶Thou art more louely and more
temperate: 295Rough windes do shake the darling buds of Maie, ¶And
Sommers lease hath all too short a date: ¶Sometime too hot the eye of
heauen shines, ¶And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, ¶And euery
faire from faire some-time declines, 300By chance,_or natures changing
course vntrim'd: ¶But thy eternall Sommer shall not fade, ¶Nor loose
possession of that faire thou ow'st, ¶Nor shall death brag thou
wandr'st in his shade, ¶When in eternall lines to time thou grow'st,
305So long as men can breath or eyes can see, So long liues this,_and
this giues life to thee,
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jeff Rubard
you should know' in Latian form:
Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd [ 30 ]
As of a person separate to God,
Design'd for great exploits; if I must dye
Betray'd, Captiv'd, and both my Eyes put out,
Made of my Enemies the scorn and gaze;
To grind in Brazen Fetters under task [ 35 ]
With this Heav'n-gifted strength? O glorious strength
Put to the labour of a Beast, debas't
Lower then bondslave! Promise was that I
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver;
Ask for this great Deliverer now, and find him [ 40 ]
Eyeless in Gaza at the Mill with slaves,
Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke;
*Samson Agonistes*, 30-42
Big Red Jeff Rubard
*Finally*, to remember the American republican common law:
*Pacta sunt servanda*
Big Red Jeff Rubard
They are killing me tonight.
Big Red Jeff Rubard
<friendlydogbanglesnsociali...@gmail.com> wrote:
> And an *inapropos unloveliness*:
> They are killing me tonight.
A "conservative extension"; crossposting to or.general, for Oregon,
the state in which Portland and surrounding cities, are in.
Big Red Jeff Rubard
Okay, I didn't die: however, I did manage to get coffee grounds in a
bandaged cut deriving some days prior from the sharp-edged and
"heavily-weighted" door on the church bookstore in the University
District.
ARMISTICE DAY RULED
Big Red Jeff Rubard
And, if a proof of "good humor" be judged necessary, as regards 12th
Avenue in Southeast my comment was:
"It's a *dream* and a reality."
Big Red Jeff Rubard
As opposed to, I suppose, something like "Asteriskie Point".
Big Red Jeff Rubard
But, on the *otha* hand, *whenever* you actually write (incl. for
major American and European publishers that forgot to ask Sergey and
Larry, maybe even *forgot to ask them as systematically as they
*should* have*) 'editing' (editing) occurs -- that's the price of not
having life "all perfect at a moment", which many people who remember
true "Portlanding" -- like Kathi Hanna -- can appreciate.
Jeff Rubard
>
> - Show quoted text -
On the other hand, I guess if you must have more:
A Winter's Tale
SCENE II. A court of Justice.
Enter LEONTES, Lords, and Officers
LEONTES
This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,
Even pushes 'gainst our heart: the party tried
The daughter of a king, our wife, and one
Of us too much beloved. Let us be clear'd
Of being tyrannous, since we so openly
Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,
Even to the guilt or the purgation.
Produce the prisoner.
Officer
It is his highness' pleasure that the queen
Appear in person here in court. Silence!
Enter HERMIONE guarded; PAULINA and Ladies attending
LEONTES
Read the indictment.
Officer
[Reads] Hermione, queen to the worthy
Leontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and
arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery
with Polixenes, king of Bohemia, and conspiring
with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign
lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence
whereof being by circumstances partly laid open,
thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance
of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for
their better safety, to fly away by night.
HERMIONE
Since what I am to say must be but that
Which contradicts my accusation and
The testimony on my part no other
But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me
To say 'not guilty:' mine integrity
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,
Be so received. But thus: if powers divine
Behold our human actions, as they do,
I doubt not then but innocence shall make
False accusation blush and tyranny
Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,
Who least will seem to do so, my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As I am now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, though devised
And play'd to take spectators. For behold me
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
A moiety of the throne a great king's daughter,
The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing
To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for. I appeal
To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes
Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrent I
Have strain'd to appear thus: if one jot beyond
The bound of honour, or in act or will
That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin
Cry fie upon my grave!
LEONTES
I ne'er heard yet
That any of these bolder vices wanted
Less impudence to gainsay what they did
Than to perform it first.
HERMIONE
That's true enough;
Through 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me.
Jeff Rubard
*After-Jeffrey*:
Macbeth:
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Doctor:
Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
Macbeth:
Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
*Macbeth* Act 5, scene 3, 40–47
Big Red Jeff Rubard
>
> - Show quoted text -
Been to France, though.
Jeff Rubard
>
> - Show quoted text -
Specifc., in the "corners of my mind", to Derrida's 'joint', where I
"did the Jacques Tati"; and who-would-not-be-adequate to the
description of such a, shall I say it, 'Event'?
Jeffrey Rubard
Jeffrey Rubard
Reality works like there are *other people* and *other facts*, too.
We get a little addicted to "zingers" that are supposed to be people's everything.